


We Are Nowhere, And It's Now

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Saved! (2004)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-21
Updated: 2005-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1638518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Graduating from high school is like being born again: the person you were before doesn't count now, except to the people who knew you then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Nowhere, And It's Now

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bastet

 

 

_1\. At the Bottom of Everything_

The thing that you need to understand is that I'm still a Christian. I believe that we were all created by a benevolent God, and that His Son died in order to redeem us. I believe that God hears prayers and that miracles happen. Some of my college friends think that's corny or naive, but it's what I see in the world. Every happy coincidence reaffirms my faith, and the universe is so full of happy coincidences that there's hardly room for anything else.

But I also believe that we're on our own here, that God answers most prayers with silence. That He takes the part about free will really seriously and He doesn't interfere unless He absolutely has to. When I was little, I used to picture God as a kindly man with a flowing white beard, His arms open wide. Now, I see a man behind a desk, scarcely able to keep up with the demands of people who are so busy praying that they never _do_ anything.

I am so afraid of becoming that kind of Christian again that I barely have time to sleep. My mom takes care of Grace, at least. I'd planned on staying home with my baby until she was at least old enough for pre-school, but by September, I was driving my mother and myself so crazy with my boredom that Mom made me enroll in community college. I got really good grades, and Mom insisted that I finish college and start a life, create a good environment for Grace. So here I am, a sophomore at a secular university, a lonely American Eagle graduate in a sea of kids who learned about evolution in their biology labs and bared their midriffs in gym class. I feel like an intruder on the secular world that I was supposed to be sheltered from. I feel like a spy. I know a lot of people here, and I always have someone to sit with in the cafeteria. But I think people look at me like I come from outer space.

And I need new friends, because the old ones are all gone. Patrick got into a really good Christian college in Illinois. He used to e-mail a lot, but I think he's busy with other things now. I hope he's busy with other girls, because I feel bad about being the right girl at the wrong time. The fairy-tale Mary would be engaged to Patrick by now. But the God I believe in these days doesn't arrange many fairy tales.

Roland and Cassandra went to New York. They drove her purple Mustang all the way there, and it broke down in Brooklyn. Maybe it happened that way because I prayed that they'd make the trip safely. Maybe they were just lucky. Maybe God kept an eye on them _because_ they didn't ask Him to. I doubt it matters. Cassandra is a bartender, and Roland is trying to be a writer. He sends me long, weird letters, and Cass draws silly pictures in the margins. They seem happy, which is what they deserve to be.

Me, I don't know, I guess I'm happy. I don't know what that's supposed to mean. I used to go to church and feel God's presence everywhere in the room. Now, if I'm lucky, I can get Grace quiet enough to let me hear Him whisper a few vague encouragements in the hush before the sermon. My mom says it's my fault for going to such a progressive church. She says God will only hang around for so long after the pastor starts performing gay weddings.

I think that any God worth believing in likes gay weddings. He likes babies and old ladies and bartenders. And He likes second chances. I don't think He wants you to be born again just the once. I think He wants you to keep being born, to keep waking up like everything's new. And I think He might be wrong, and I think He likes that, too.

_2\. Land Locked Blues_

Roland keeps all of Mary's e-mails. He's got one of those web-based accounts with all the folders, and hers is called Mary Sunshine. She's the only person who has her own folder. Roland doesn't know quite how that happened, and he's mulled the question over endlessly. Lots of time for contemplating your navel when you're unemployable.

He deletes most of the e-mail he gets right after he reads it ? sometimes before he reads it. Goodbye, penile enhancement spam. Goodbye, Cass reminding him to pay the rent. Goodbye, Mom and Dad, explaining one more time about the Bible college in Oregon that they can still get him into.

Goodbye, Hilary Faye.

He feels powerful when he empties the trash folder. He is Childe Roland, destroyer of cities, slayer of dragons, deleter of missives. He really ought to read that poem. He has the time, and that's not something that most people can say.

Mary actually went out and read the _Song of Roland_ because it had his name in it. College and motherhood have transformed her from the kind of girl who's mostly concerned with whether her new earrings are Jesus-affirming enough to the kind of girl who reads medieval poetry while her two-year-old is napping. Being friends with Mary is like an endless cycle of damnation. She out-Rolands Roland by day and comes home to her baby at night, and she still finds the time to make the Dean's List.

If Roland believed in God, he'd think that Mary was one of His favorites, charmed and blessed beyond the grasp of those around her. That's how religious people talk about overachievers. She's a single mother and a full-time student and yet she makes it all work: there must be an angel on her shoulder! Never mind that Mary hardly sleeps, that Mary's mom picks up some of the slack but the baby spends most of her time in day care. Never mind that Mary's success is more impressive because it's her own, because she eschewed the power of prayer in favor of the power of effective time management. Mary likes to say that God answers a lot of prayers with silence, because He wants you to figure things out for yourself. It's somewhere in almost every e-mail. Roland re-read them to make sure.

Mary still believes in God. She's still a Christian. She goes to church every Sunday ? a liberal church where they pray for peace in the Middle East and host diversity potlucks, but it's church. And she loves it, because she's crazy.

Roland used to love church. When he was a little boy, he'd watch all those people with their hands in the air and their eyes closed, the way the pastor would shout with praise and all the adults would sing. Groupthink looks like magic when you're too young to know better. He stopped feeling God when he stopped being able to feel his toes.

He got an e-mail today that he didn't delete, and it wasn't from Mary. A small online magazine is paying him for one of his short stories. It's original work, they said. Like they were trying to contradict themselves, "inspired." For a moment, he wonders if they were right, if some of those words came from outside of him, from something bigger. If there is an entity powerful enough to carry purple Mustangs all the way to New York City. But he thinks better of it, and he rubs his head, and he spins his wheels.

_3\. Old Soul Song (For the New World Order)_

This is how you make a blue motherfucker: half a shot each of vodka, gin, rum, tequila, and blue curacao. Two shots of sweet & sour. Fill with 7-Up, toss in a lemon wedge, smile like you mean it and hope for a tip. Your boss will like it when you learn to pour two shots at the same time: two clear, two clear, and one of blue. The girl in the halter top who ordered it won't care. It doesn't matter which job you're working at when you make the drink, the bar in Williamsburg that you tend six nights a week or a cater-waiter gig at a Bat Mitzvah in Great Neck. This is how it goes.

This is how you help your paraplegic boyfriend in public bathrooms that have no disabled access. Stow the footrests on the wheelchair and collapse the armrests. The stall door will be wide open, but Roland isn't embarrassed about mooning strangers. When he's got his pants down, grab his legs and lift while he swings his body around. Introduce your middle finger to any jackass bold enough to mention that this is the men's room. Wait with Roland's wheelchair until he's done and he knocks. Reverse the whole process. When the jackass from before asks what you're doing with half a man, tell him that Roland gives head like a motherfucker. Watch Roland grin. He always takes that as a compliment. You will always be in love with his smile.

This is how finances work, when you're a plucky kid trying to make it on her own in New York City. The government pays Roland back for the tragedy of not having legs. He gets in line at the Currency Exchange with all the Puerto Rican grannies and gets his social security check every month. That check barely covers groceries and his medication. You mix drinks for Carrie Bradshaw wannabes, and that covers the rent and utilities. Cater-waitressing takes care of everything else. Your parents send you money for your birthday and Chanukah, because this is what they always assumed would happen, and they're relieved it isn't worse. Roland's folks send cards with doves and smiling children on them but no money until Roland "finds his path." Know this: Roland will find his path when Jesus starts raining down rent money.

This is what you do when Roland sells his first story. Climb in his lap and kiss him until he shoves you. Read the e-mail from the magazine out loud three times. Get Chinese food delivered, saying that if he keeps this up, you'll be able to afford it. When Roland's not looking, kiss your fingers and raise them to the sky. You don't think anyone's paying attention, but you'd rather cover your ass. If you ought to be thankful, then you are.

 


End file.
